


Children of the Sun

by Vivian



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (because of Credence that is), Changing POV, Godric's Hollow, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: “I love you,” Gellert whispers, filled with the truth of it, the black turmoil of it, bereft of all his defences, utterly—utterly laid bare before ruin.But Albus does not ruin him. Not yet.An eternity of silence before Albus says,“And I You.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is partly a love song to this ship and partly a love song to my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas), who beta'd this. Thanks goes additionally to all who encouraged me by reading over it.

_To part is to die a little_ __  
_To die to what we love_ __  
_One leaves a little of one's self_  
_In every hour and in every place._

  


i.

 

It’s 1899, and he’s above Albus, hair veiling his face, the sun radiant behind him, an aureola reflected in Albus’ eyes, and Gellert’s face: in the shadows. It catches him then, in the blink of an eye. It is so sudden an onslaught, it tears his breath from his lungs. And before he can stop himself,

“I love you,” Gellert whispers, filled with the truth of it, the black turmoil of it, bereft of all his defences, utterly— _utterly_ laid bare before ruin.

But Albus does not ruin him. Not yet.

An eternity of silence before Albus says,

“And I You.”

Quietly. Steady. Gellert cannot breathe. His chest is strung tight, pulse violent in his ears, tears swelling, and he knows no words, knows only this—

Albus slides onto his elbows, sits up in the grass, his eyes of azure, his flaming red hair, his skin pale as ivory, and his touch—

“Gellert,” Albus says and that is all it takes.

 

____________

 

The first time he kisses Albus is in Albus’ room, midnight has passed them by but dawn is yet far. An open window and flickering flames, white wax melting, dripping onto book covers and the wooden floor. They sit next each other, knees touching, elbows brushing, quiet murmurs between them, Albus’ words blazing in Gellert’s mind like the first fiery stars. Gellert has never felt more like he belongs exactly in this moment, this time, at the end of the century with Albus by his side. He’s drunk with it. Like the rumoured clasps of opium, it drowns him softly.

A hiss, a flutter of wings. A moth burns in the flame of the candle behind them.

Gellert laughs. Their fingers touch. He leans towards Albus—

His lips brush Albus’ cheek, then Albus turns his head. Their mouths meet. It is terrifying. Gellert closes his eyes. Slowly, he opens his lips. A wet tongue glides between them, and Gellert sucks. Then he brushes against it with his own, pushing back.

It is clumsy, this first time they touch. They don’t know each other’s bodies yet, they don’t know _this_ , and when finally Gellert comes, mouth pressed against Albus’, hand between Albus’ legs and Albus’ hand between his own, it is with a sob and tears quelled behind his closed eyes.

 

____________

 

ii.

 

There are rumours. Whispers that spread along the old continent, from ragged shore to the plains of Germany to the forests of Sweden. _Grindelwald_. Frightful, like a curse.

Albus catches a glimpse of him in the year 1917, at the end of October at Chateau Wood near Ypres. Gellert stands between the bare tree trunks under a steel-grey sky. Left and right to him the gathered cendrée waters, an almost swamp, quiet in the onset of cold. Gellert wears a torn cloak. Soot is ground black over his cheeks and lips. He falters as their gazes meet. Gellert’s lips part, but he speaks no word. And before Albus can call out, he vanishes into gossamer threads of ash, strung into the air. Albus walks there, traces his hand through where a moment ago Gellert’s face had been. His fingertips coat black.

Albus stays in the ruins of Ypres, where stone has been burnt and buildings have crumbled, where yet the stench of death remains as a sting upon the city. He’s felt Gellert without knowing, the taste of his magic, the tar and taint of it, its subtle scent of ozone, seeping into the fabric of time. Where once and more, Gellert visits in the guise of death.

There have been other such occasions, and Albus has followed him in the footprints of the Great War. Leading him here. To him. Of course. He is gone now. And Albus shall look no further.

 

____________

 

Three years later, Albus visits an old friend in Prague. Together they venture to Berlin to meet a retired professor of Hogwarts. The city blooms all around them, life passes by faster here, they say. It’s a nouveau decadence, a glamour born of willful oblivion. The young flourish and take liberties as a natural right. The saloons are filled with chatter and laughter, the scent of cigarettes, quick piano music and violinists playing like hell follows on their heels. Their last night they spent in a saloon near Nollendorfplatz. It’s like nothing Albus has seen before, men dressed in evening gowns, lips and lids painted, women dressed in suits, kissing, drinking, smoking and dancing. Perfume tints the air, and something else, too. Something familiar.  The tune played is quick and heady, reminiscent of feverish summer nights—

Albus turns, stares at the stage.

There he is. Gellert.

Fiddle on his shoulder, wrist delicately bent as he moves the bow over gut-strings.

It’s as if time stops, but for a moment. Albus loses his breath. The music fades. Only his pulse, pandemonium in his skull.

Gellert smiles. Albus thinks, he hasn’t aged a day.

Before he can think otherwise, he moves, and so does Gellert. He leaves the stage. Then they are in the corridor. The old fear crawls over Albus, the uncertainty— Ariana, her cold body—

Gellert’s grip tears him from all thought. His eyes green, so bright, so bright—

They kiss before he knows it. Wet, warmth, Gellert’s tongue, his body so close. Albus seizes the collar of his shirt and spins him around, presses him against the wall. Gellert laughs, breathless. Some nameless thing rises in Albus, black as wrath. He bites Gellert’s lip, hands roaming over his body. He slows only as he feels Gellert clinging to the lapels of his suit jacket. They look at each other. Gellert’s eyes glazed wet, lips kissed red.

“Tell me,” Gellert says, voice brittle, “tell me you still love me.”

It thieves Albus of air. His knees weaken.

“Tell me,” Gellert repeats.

Albus sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Have you always been this cruel?” he murmurs.

Gellert bites his lip and pulls him close.

“Yes.”

 

They spend the night together. Guilt lies in every touch, the knowledge of spilled blood. And yet, skin against skin they tumble and fall. And somewhen as they fall, one of them whispers the words.

 

____________

 

iii.

 

January. New York is grim and cold. The air stinks of exhaust fumes. Not even the rain can purge the city of its stench. Gellert would not have come, would have remained in the misty forests of Saxon Switzerland, but he has seen it, like the Sibyls of old. Spreading obscurity in the shape of a child. A power seldom witnessed, an arcanum of the dark arts. One Gellert has heard of before, only once. Albus’ sister.

The vision shows some pitiful church of lower Manhattan.

Just on the corner of Allen and Pike Street, close to the bridged rails, the thunder of the locomotive cutting through the hours. Shops are squashed along the streets, from cheap clothing to worthless antiquities. Litter lies tossed on the edges of pavement, clutters the gutters. The church itself is a small building of brick, no ornament or stucco. It is home to the New Salemers, a society preaching hatred against the wizarding world. They have few followers and are more an annoyance than a threat. Yet, MACUSA worries about their persistence. And Gellert, who has clad himself in the body of Auror Percival Graves, offers his assistance. It’s how Gellert meets the Barebones’ eldest child. Credence. An orphan boy, talentless, son of a witch with no powers himself, taken in by Mary Lou Barebone. Credence keeps his gaze cast low and his shoulders hunched, shudders at every echo of step. The wounds on his palms never quite close. Belt traces. He’s abject in his misery.

But Gellert has seen him, too. The vision that shows him the child, shows him Credence first.

So Gellert approaches him while Credence gives out flyers. Rain soaks Credence’s jacket, rolls off the brim of his hat as the passersby ignore his outstretched hands, clasping the drenched pieces of paper. He stands bent in the stream of people. He looks at no one. But he will look at Gellert.

It takes only a small kindness. The boy is older than Albus was when Gellert met him, yet he is more child than either of them were. Worthless.

Gellert promises him a different life. Calls him a special boy. Holds him in dark alleyways, hand in the nape of Credence’s neck. Disgust curdles inside Gellert’s stomach. The boy loves him.

Some say, this is what he’s done to Albus, too.

 

____________

 

It’s a day before the new term starts in Hogwarts. Yet, silence reigns the corridors. The classrooms are locked except for the casual experiment of a teacher.

Albus sits at his desk, one hand playing with the lemon drops to his left, the other holding last day’s newspaper.

 _Grindelwald apprehended in New York_ , the headline reads.

Carefully, Albus sets the newspaper to the side. Yet, he cannot look away from the photograph of him. Gaunt, skin sallow, but his _eyes_ — Vibrant. His lips curled into a smirk. Albus knows it too well.

Albus closes his eyes. Before them, her face. Ariana.

He does not dwell on her often. Cannot bear to. Or perhaps it is how Aberforth tells it— Perhaps he does not care _enough_ —

Albus bites his tongue. How Aberforth had raged, how he had cried. It had been muted against Albus’ name, falling from Gellert’s lips. That moment-fracture. Before Gellert had turned around and left. Ariana dead on the floor. Her face blurs in Albus’ memory.  

He opens his eyes again. He turns the newspaper around, sliding it to the side, along with the subpoena of the ministry to attend Gellert’s trial.

He will not go. He cannot see him again.

 

It is in those quiet moments after dusk, when he is alone in his office, that his thoughts stray. It needs so little to remind him. A sound, a scent, and he is back in 1899. The years do not eclipse it. The memory of him.

Nor does the shame dwindle.

____________

 

iv.

 

It takes Albus half a lifetime.

For so many years, he’s been afraid. And when finally he confronts Gellert, he knows why.

The century has been of wars in both worlds. Death has walked their ranks, and many have fallen to his scythe. Mass graves, carrion birds black in the grey skies. Many of the battlefields Albus was wandered, some unseen, others with friends by his side.

Now, in the middle of the century he stands on the verge of history. He has but to stray a little, and death will walk among them once more.

Gellert stands before him. Pale and tall, and his eyes so green.

“I knew you’d come here,” Gellert says, voice choked.

Albus cannot answer him.

“Do you want to know who killed her? Shall I tell you?” Gellert spits.

Wind howls around them, carrying rain and the scent of cinders. Godric’s Hollow is deserted. Albus clasps his wand, knuckles turning white.

“I’ve never wanted it to end this way,” Albus says quietly.

Gellert laughs. It’s an ugly sound. In his hand, the elder wand.

He strides towards Albus until only a few paces lie between them. Time and malice have distorted his features, laid bare the ruin of his mutilated soul.

And yet. To Albus, he is beautiful still.

There are words Albus wishes to speak. He cannot.

 

They fight.

 

An aeon seems to go by in which they curse each other, in which none of them exceeds the other. Some part of Albus does not wish to.

At last, Albus disarms him. The elder wand is torn from Gellert’s grasp. He falls and stills.

Albus reels towards him, goes to his knees. With trembling hands, he turns Gellert onto his back. Blood oozes from Gellert’s nose and a split on his forehead. When Albus grabs his tunic his hands come back slicked red. He’s shaking.

Gellert opens his eyes, pupils blown wide. Godric’s Hollow has fallen to silence.

Gellert’s lips move. Albus leans in closer.

“Starbst du, nur ein wenig?” Gellert’s breath is wet against Albus’ cheek.

“Yes,” Albus whispers. The sound is drowned out by the arriving Aurors.

 

____________

 

The Mirror of Erised shows neither wisdom nor truth.

Albus knows this. He tells Harry, and waits for the boy to leave.

For a moment, Albus is tempted. To tread a little closer. To glance into the mirror himself. How often has he stood here midst the twilight gazing at what never changes? ‘Neath the surface of glass, he waits. It is ever him. They stand beside each other. Gellert’s hand rests on Albus’ shoulder. A few paces further, Ariana and Aberforth, faces cast in shadow.

Such foolishness.

 

Silence ever reigns in Albus’ office. Few he allows to enter. Albus lives, and well enough.

He does not dwell on him. He seeks to mould a new generation of witches and wizards, and there are many things to fill his mind, curiosities and mysteries, young talented and promising children—

And many things weigh upon him with Harry Potter under his wing and strange sightings of darkness taking shape. Whispers, as he had once heard whispers. Voldemort who yet roams free seeking to return and once more ascend. Albus should have known. Should have seen it.

Maybe he had. Just like with him.

 

It has been half a century since he last saw him. Albus’ hair and beard have long turned white. Though power pulses in his veins, his body has grown frail.

There is a moment in the afternoon when the sunlight wanes. And as it falls golden and warm, it strikes Albus. How the years have passed him by. How he remains, on his own.

He does not think of him, Albus tells himself. He does not think of him anymore.

 

____________

 

v.

 

It is not the end of all things, but simply his end.

He knows it the moment the Malfoys’ boy’s steps echo in the Astronomy Tower. He sends Potter beneath the floorboards and asks him to trust him. One last time.

Draco comes in, wand in hand. Tom Riddle’s Death Eaters follow after him, carrying the stench of withering. The boy cannot do it. The Death Eaters know it, too. Draco is almost crying, shivering like an animal pushed into a corner.

Then Severus strides close.  His face is blank, masterfully so. But Albus can see the rage, the suffering, the _love_ — “You ask too much,” Severus had said. He’s right. Albus has always asked too much, of all of them. Especially of Harry. Harry, who does not yet know his fate. That he too, must die to defeat Tom Riddle. So many whom Albus could not spare pain, loss, death.

“Please,” he says to Severus.

And Severus obliges.

The curse hits him. Wind rushes against his ears. He falls.

He does not close his eyes. He thinks of all of their fate. Of hope. Of Ariana.

Of him.

How he’d smiled in that summer, the sun caught in his hair.

 

____________

 

Gellert feels it, even here in the highest cell of Nurmengard.

Through cracks of  jet black stone, dim light. Outside, the ragged shoreline and the storm-whipped sea. Rain pierces the waves, froth foaming at their crests as they crash into each other and against stone. The storm leaves the world to twilight. Primordial.

It swallows the sound that escapes Gellert. He sinks to the floor.

For a moment there is only this. No air, no thought, just loss.

Then wrath. Hatred, so black it cuts what is left of his soul almost in two.

Albus, foolish until the end. He let it happen.

They could have lived forever.

Some part of Gellert has always believed they’d die by each other’s hand. But life is not that kind.

When Voldemort comes to him, not a year later, and asks about the elder wand, Gellert laughs in his face. He’d been him, so long ago. Yet even he can see that Voldemort’s era is over. He’s but another tyrant, soon dispossessed by time. The elder wand will not change that. It serves none like him for long. Gellert would know.

He does not tell Voldemort where it is. Tells him instead, he’s never possessed it.

Voldemort pulls out his wand and speaks the curse. Gellert lets it happen.

 

____________

 

vi.

 

The night is quiet in Godric’s Hollow. Gas lights flicker in a cold breeze. The day’s warmth has faded, and mist lies about the village. It curls the tips of Gellert’s hair as he hastens in the shadows. In his breast pocket lies secured, Albus’ latest letter. The ink had just dried when it’d arrived at Gellert’s, moments ago. He’d sent Albus’ owl back without a reply, and instead had grabbed his hat and jacket.

Now, he’s nearly there. The Dumbledores’ house looms into the dark sky. On the second floor to the right, light glimmers through the windows.

Gellert pulls out his wand and with a simple spell knocks against Albus’ window. Shuffling steps. The window opens. Albus’ head peeks through. His eyes are wide, incredulous. Gellert grins. He casts another spell, letting tendrils snake up the walls to Albus’ window. Then Gellert is climbing them.

“Be careful!”he hears Albus’ mutter, half scandalised, half excited. Gellert reaches him finally and Albus helps him through the window.

“You are mad,” Albus accuses, but his eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

“One of my many dazzling qualities,” Gellert replies and Albus playfully smacks his shoulder. Gellert closes the window behind him and jumps from the window pane.

“Hush! Don’t wake Ariana and Aberforth.”

“Yes, yes,” Gellert mutters and takes off his jacket and hat. Albus takes them from him to put away. Their fingers brush. A shiver runs down Gellert’s back. He runs a hand through his mussed hair, turning towards Albus’ escritoire. Papers scattered all over, and midst it, a map of Europe. Several marks dot the parchment.

“So these are the new possible locations you mentioned, yes?” Gellert asks, pointing at the map.

“Indeed. The elder wand might be in one of them.”

Gellert traces the marks with his index finger, then he looks up at Albus. How soft he looks in the candlelight, shadows smooth and warm, shirt only half buttoned, collar loose. Gellert’s breath catches. He swallows, then pats down his waistcoat’s pocket.

“I forgot, I brought those for you,” Gellert says, pulling out a case of lemon drops.

Albus steps closer. Carefully, Albus grazes his hand against Gellert’s. Gellert is caught in the glimpse of Albus’ eyes. He’s not sure who moves first. The case clatters to the floor. Then they are kissing. Hot mouth against his, opening up. Without thought Gellert grabs Albus’ hips, spins them around and pushes Albus against the escritoire. His fingers clumsy at Albus’ trousers, undoing the buttons. Albus’ soft moan between their lips. Then Gellert sinks to his knees, hands dragging over Albus’ thighs. He looks up. Their gazes meet. Gellert feels like tumbling into an abyss.

 

Later at night they lie in Albus’ bed, all but one candle extinguished. Murmurs and touch between them. They speak of the wand, of journeying through Europe together, of how, once they acquire the wand, little will keep them from rising to power. The world will lie before them, ripe for the taking. They will bring about a better future, one in which they won’t have to hide, one in which they will _rule_. Albus’ gentle hands, dragging over Gellert’s spine, then his hip bone. He sucks in a shuddering breath when they dip between his thighs.

“I should go,” Gellert murmurs afterwards.

“You should,” Albus agrees.

 

The next morning, Gellert wakes slowly. Light falls through the curtains, orange and red. It paints across Albus who lies curled on his side, lips gently parted. Gellert does but watch him for a moment. Something tightens in his chest, thieving him of air. He does not dare to touch. Wants to _keep_ this, wants to remain as they are—

Albus’ eyelids flutter open. All thought fades from Gellert’s mind.

A lazy smile curves Albus’ lips.

“You stayed…” Albus says, then his eyes widen, “what about your aunt?”

Gellert leans down, brushing his lips against Albus’. His fingers tremble when he strokes a strand of hair behind Albus’ ear.

“I didn’t want to leave…” Gellert whispers, once more breathless.

Albus’ smile widens, then he pulls Gellert closer and kisses him back.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to Plato's Symposium. The quote in the beginning is from [this](http://www.lieder.net/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=7174).  
> Also, have some young Albus paintings I did here [x](http://kyluxxury.tumblr.com/post/154438658413/lbr-young-albus-was-such-a-babe), [x](http://kyluxxury.tumblr.com/post/154597182618/1h-speedpaint).  
> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
